Jimmy Breslin invented the nexus of the mafia and humor with his Gang that Couldn’t Shoot Straight. Later he would write the only definitive novel of working class Queens with Table Money, quite truly one of the most shockingly pitch-perfect books I’ve ever read. He would follow that up with a wonderfully bleak look at New York’s homeless situation with He Got Hungry and Forgot His Manners. Before all this, though, is Breslin’s would-be epic about the Irish Troubles, World Without End, Amen. It is a mostly forgotten book – very much out of print and, frankly, isn’t worth hunting down.
The first third presents us with Breslin’s trademark New York City realism. An alcoholic Irish-American cop who thinks nothing of beating up blacks. Fate sends him to Belfast where he witnesses first hand the third world living conditions. He falls in with a group of Commnunists who may or may not be opening his eyes to injustices back home.
Breslin is an apt reporter and his scenes of Ulster country mayhem and poverty are well-written, but the narrative drive is very much on empty. Forget that it is near impossible to like our protagonist (stamping out a cigarette on a man’s eye just because he is black and gay is a tough way to win our love) and, although I give Breslin points for eschewing easy redemption, the “so what” factor of his Irish observations end us with a big, troubling question mark. I feel that maybe Breslin would have been better off with straight reportage if he wanted to discuss his take on Northern Ireland. Not recommended.
